Five Scarpetta Novels (24 page)

“He doesn't care if you know who he is,” I said. “If he cared, he wouldn't be so obvious, Marino. This is just one more intimidation attempt.”

“Yeah, well, let's see who intimidates who,” he said, slowing down.

He stared in the rearview mirror again, slowing more, and the car got closer. Suddenly, he hit his brakes hard. I didn't know who was more shocked, our tailgater or me, as the Lexus's brakes screeched, horns blaring all around, and the car clipped the rear end of Marino's Ford.

“Uh-oh,” he said. “Looks like someone's just rear-ended a policeman.”

He got out and subtly unsnapped his holster while I looked on in disbelief. I slipped out my pistol and dropped it in a pocket of my coat as I decided I should get out, too, since I had no idea what was about to happen. Marino was by the Lexus's driver's door, watching the traffic at his back as he talked into his portable radio.

“Keep your hands where I can see them at all times,” he ordered the driver again in a loud, authoritative voice. “Now I want you to give me your driver's license. Slow.”

I was on the other side of the car, near the passenger's door, and I knew who the offender was before Marino saw the license, and the photograph on it.

“Well, well, Detective Roche,” Marino raised his voice above the rush of traffic. “Fancy we should run into you. Or vice versa.” His tone turned hard. “Get out of the car. Now. You got any firearms on you?”

“It's between the seats. In plain view,” he said, coldly.

Then Roche slowly got out of the car. He was tall and slender in fatigue pants, a denim jacket, boots and a large black dive watch. Marino turned him around and ordered him again to keep his hands in plain view. I stood where I was while Roche's sunglasses fixed on me, his mouth smug.

“So tell me, Detective Cock-Roche,” Marino said, “who you snitching for today? Might it be Captain Green you've been talking to on your portable phone? You been telling him everywhere we've been going today and what we're doing, and how much you've been scaring our asses as we spot you in our mirrors? Or are you obvious just because you're a dumb shit?”

Roche said nothing, his face hard.

“Is that what you did to Danny, too? You called the tow
lot and said you were the doc and wanted to know what time to pick up your car. Then you passed the info down the line, only it just so happened it wasn't the doc driving that night. And now a kid's missing half his head because some soldier of fortune didn't know the doc ain't a man or maybe mistook Danny for a medical examiner.”

“You can't prove anything,” Roche said with the same mocking smile.

“We'll see how much I can prove when I get hold of your cellular phone bills.” Marino moved closer so Roche could feel his big presence, his belly almost touching him. “And when I find something, you're going to have a lot more to worry about than a driving penalty. At the very least I'm going to nail your pretty ass for being an accomplice to murder prior to the fact. That ought to get you about fifty years.

“In the meantime”—Marino jabbed a thick finger at his face—“I'd better never see you even within a mile of me again. And I wouldn't recommend you getting anywhere close to the doc, either. You've never seen her when she gets irritated.”

Marino lifted his radio and got back on the air to check the status of getting an officer to the scene, and even as his request was broadcast again, a cruiser appeared on 64. It pulled in behind us on the shoulder, and a uniformed female sergeant from Richmond P.D. got out. She walked our way with purpose, her hand discreetly near her gun.

“Captain, good afternoon.” She adjusted the volume on the radio on her belt. “What seems to be the problem?”

“Well, Sergeant Schroeder, it seems this person's been tailgating me for the better part of the day,” Marino said. “And unfortunately, when I was forced to apply my brakes due to a white dog running in front of my vehicle, he struck me from the rear.”

“Was this the same white dog?” the sergeant asked without a trace of a smile.

“Looked like the same one we've had problems with.”

They went on with what must have been the oldest police joke, for when it came to single-car accidents, it seemed a ubiquitous white canine was always to blame. It darted in front of vehicles and then was gone until it darted in front of the next bad driver and again got blamed.

“He has at least one firearm inside his vehicle,” Marino added in his most serious police tone. “I want him thoroughly searched before we get him inside.”

“All right, sir, you need to spread your arms and legs.”

“I'm a cop,” Roche snapped.

“Yes, sir, so you should know exactly what I'm doing,” Sergeant Schroeder matter-of-factly stated.

She patted him down, and discovered an ankle holster on his inner left leg.

“Now ain't that sweet,” Marino said.

“Sir,” the sergeant said a little more loudly as another unmarked unit pulled up, “I'm going to have to ask you to remove the pistol from your ankle holster and place it inside your vehicle.”

A deputy chief got out, resplendent in patent leather, navy and brass, and not exactly thrilled to be on the scene. But it was procedure to call him whenever a captain was involved in any police matter, no matter how small. He silently looked on as Roche removed a Colt .380 from the black nylon holster. He locked it inside the Lexus and was red with rage as he was placed in the back of the patrol car, where he was interviewed while I waited inside the damaged Ford.

“Now what happens?” I asked Marino when he returned.

“He'll be charged with following too close and be
released on a Virginia Uniform Summons.” He buckled up and seemed pleased.

“That's it?”

“Yup. Except court. The good news is, I ruined his day. The better news is now we got something to investigate that may eventually send his ass to Mecklenburg where, as sweet-looking as he is, he'll have lots of friends.”

“Did you know it was him before he hit us?” I asked.

“Nope. I had no idea.” We pulled back out into traffic.

“And what did he say when he was questioned?”

“What you'd expect. I stopped suddenly.”

“Well, you did.”

“And by law it's all right to do that.”

“What about following us? Did he have an explanation?”

“He's been out all day running errands and sightseeing. He doesn't know what we're talking about.”

“I see. If you're going to run errands, you need to bring along at least two guns.”

“You want to tell me how the hell he can afford a car like that?” Marino glanced over at me. “He probably doesn't make half what I do, and that Lexus he's got probably cost close to fifty grand.”

“The Colt he was carrying isn't cheap, either,” I said. “He's getting money from somewhere.”

“Snitches always do.”

“That's all you think he is?”

“Yeah, for the most part. I think he's been doing shit work, probably for Green.”

The radio suddenly interrupted us with the loud blare of an alert tone, and then we were given answers that were even worse than any we might have feared.

“All units be advised that we have just received a teletype from state police that gives the following
information,” a dispatcher repeated. “The nuclear power plant at Old Point has been taken over by terrorists. Shots have been fired and there are fatalities.”

I was shocked speechless as the message went on and on.

“The chief of police has ordered that the department move to emergency plan A. Until further notice all day shift units will remain on their posts. Updates will follow. All division commanders will report to the command post at the police academy immediately.”

“Hell no,” Marino said as he slammed the accelerator to the floor. “We're going to your office.”

T
HE INVASION OF
the old point nuclear power plant had happened swiftly and horrifically, and in disbelief we listened to the news while Marino sped through town. We did not utter a sound as an almost hysterical reporter at the scene rambled in a voice several octaves above what it usually was.

“Old Point nuclear power plant has been seized by terrorists,” he repeated. “This happened about forty-five minutes ago when a bus carrying at least twenty men posing as CP&L employees stormed the main administration building. It is believed that at least three civilians are dead.” His voice was shaking, and we could hear helicopters overhead. “I can see police vehicles and fire trucks everywhere, but they can't get close. Oh my God, this is awful . . .”

Marino parked on the side of the street by my building. For a while we could not move as we listened to the same information again and again. It did not seem real, for less than a hundred miles from Old Point, here in Richmond, the afternoon was bright. Traffic was normal and people walked along sidewalks as if nothing had happened. My
eyes stared without focusing, my thoughts flying through lists of what I must do.

“Come on, Doc.” Marino cut the engine off. “Let's go inside. I got to use the phone and get hold of one of my lieutenants. I've got to get things mobilized in case the lights go out in Richmond, or worse.”

I had my own mobilizing to do and started with assembling everyone in the conference room, where I declared a statewide emergency.

“Each district must be on standby and ready to implement its part of the disaster plan,” I announced to everyone in the room. “A nuclear disaster could affect all districts. Obviously, Tidewater is the most imperiled and the least covered. Dr. Fielding,” I said to my deputy chief, “I'd like to put you in charge of Tidewater and make you acting chief when I can't be there.”

“I'll do the best I can,” he said bravely, although no one of sound mind would want the assignment I just gave him.

“Now, I won't always know where I'm going to be throughout this,” I said to other anxious faces. “Business goes on as usual here, but I want any bodies brought here. Any bodies from Old Point, I'm saying, starting with the shooting fatalities.”

“What about other Tidewater cases?” Fielding wanted to know.

“Routine cases are done as usual. I understand we do have another autopsy technician to fill in until we can find a permanent replacement.”

“Any chance these bodies you want here might be contaminated?” my administrator asked, and he had always been a worrier.

“So far we're talking about shooting victims,” I said.

“And they couldn't be.”

“No.”

“But what about later?” he went on.

“Mild contamination isn't a problem,” I said. “We just scrub the bodies and get rid of the soapy water and clothes. Acute exposure to radiation is another matter, especially if the bodies are badly burned, if debris is burned into them, as it was in Chernobyl. Those bodies will need to be shielded in a special refrigerated truck, and all exposed personnel will wear lead-lined suits.”

“Those bodies we'll cremate?”

“I would recommend that. Which is another reason why they need to come here to Richmond. We can use the crematorium in the anatomical division.”

Marino stuck his head inside the conference room. “Doc?” He motioned me out.

I got up and we spoke in the hall.

“Benton wants us at Quantico now,” he said.

“Well, it won't be now,” I said.

I glanced back at the conference room. Through the doorway I could see Fielding making some point, while one of the other doctors looked tense and unhappy.

“You got an overnight bag with you?” Marino went on, and he knew I always kept one here.

“Is this really necessary?” I complained.

“I'd tell you if it wasn't.”

“Give me just fifteen minutes to finish up this meeting.”

I brought confusion and fear to closure as best I could, and told the other doctors I could be gone for days because I'd just been summoned to Quantico. But I would wear my pager. Then Marino and I took my car instead of his, since he had already made arrangements for repairs to the bumper Roche had hit. We sped north on 95 with the radio on, and by now we had heard the story so many times we knew it as well as the reporters.

In the past two hours, no one else had died at Old Point, at least not that anybody knew of, and the terrorists had let dozens of people go. These fortunate ones had been allowed to leave in twos and threes, according to the news. Emergency medical personnel, state police and the FBI were intercepting them for examinations and interviews.

We arrived at Quantico at almost five, and Marines in camouflage were vigorously blasting the rapid approach of night. They were crowded in trucks and behind sandbags on the range, and when we passed close to a knot of them gathered by the road, I was pained by their young faces. I rounded a bend, where tall tan brick buildings suddenly rose above trees. The complex did not look military, and in fact, could have been a university were it not for the rooftops of antennae. A road leading to it stopped midway at an entrance gate where tire shredders bared teeth to people going the wrong way.

An armed guard emerged from his booth and smiled because we were no strangers, and he let us through. We parked in the big lot across from the tallest building, called Jefferson, which was basically the Academy's self-contained downtown. Inside were the post office, the indoor range, dining hall and PX, with upper floors for dormitory rooms, including security suites for protected witnesses and spies.

New agents in khaki and dark blue were honing weapons in the gun-cleaning room. It seemed I had smelled the solvents all of my life, and could hear compressed air blasting through barrels and other parts whenever I wanted to in my mind. My history had become entwined with this place. There was scarcely a corner that did not evoke emotion, for I had been in love here, and had brought into this building my most terrible cases. I had taught and consulted in their classrooms, and inadvertently given them my niece.

“God knows what we're about to walk into,” Marino said as we got on the elevator.

“We'll just take it one inch at a time,” I said as the new agents in their FBI caps vanished behind shutting steel doors.

He pressed the button for the lower level, which had been intended as Hoover's bomb shelter in a different age. The profiling unit, as the world still called it, was sixty feet below ground, with no windows or any other relief from the horrors it found. I frankly had never understood how Wesley could endure it year after year, for whenever I sat in consultations that lasted more than a day, I was crazed. I had to walk or drive my car. I had to get away.

“An inch at a time?” Marino repeated as the elevator stopped. “There ain't no inch or mile that's going to help this scenario. We're a day late and a dollar short. We started putting the pieces together after the game was goddamn over.”

“It isn't over,” I said.

We walked past the receptionist and around a corner, where a hallway led to the unit chief's office.

“Yeah, well, let's hope it don't end with a bang. Shit. If only we had figured it out sooner.” His stride was long and angry.

“Marino, we couldn't have known. There isn't a way.”

“Well, I think we should have figured out something sooner. Like in Sandbridge, when you got the weird phone call and then everything else.”

“Oh for God's sake,” I said. “What? A phone call should have tipped us off that terrorists were about to seize a nuclear power plant?”

Wesley's secretary was new and I could not remember her name.

“Good afternoon,” I said to her. “Is he in?”

“May I tell him who you are?” she asked with a smile.

We told her, and were patient as she rang him. They did not speak long.

When she looked back at us she said, “You may go in.”

Wesley was behind his desk, and when we walked in he stood. He was typically preoccupied and somber in a gray herringbone suit and black and gray tie.

“We can go in the conference room,” he said.

“Why?” Marino took a chair. “You got some other people coming?”

“Actually, I do,” he replied.

I stood where I was and would not give him my eyes any longer than was polite.

“I'll tell you what,” he reconsidered. “We can stay in here. Hold on.” He walked to the door. “Emily, can you find another chair?”

We got settled while she brought one in, and Wesley was having a hard time keeping his thoughts in one place and making decisions. I knew what he was like when he was overwhelmed. I knew when he was scared.

“You know what's going on,” he said as if we did.

“We know what everybody else does,” I replied. “We've heard the same news on the radio probably a hundred times.”

“So how about starting from the beginning,” Marino said.

“CP&L has a district office in Suffolk,” Wesley began. “At least twenty people left there this afternoon in a bus for an alleged in-service in the mock control room of the Old Point plant. They were men, white, thirties to early forties, posing as employees, which they obviously are not. And they managed to get into the main building where the control room is located.”

“They were armed,” I said.

“Yes. When it was time for them to go through the X-ray machines and other detectors at the main building, they pulled out semiautomatic weapons. As you know, people have been killed—we think at least three CP&L employees, including a nuclear physicist who just happened to be paying a site visit today and was going through security at the wrong time.”

“What are their demands?” I asked, and I wondered how much Wesley had known and for how long. “Have they said what they want?”

He met my eyes. “That's what worries us the most. We don't know what they want.”

“But they're letting people go,” Marino said.

“I know. And that worries me, too,” Wesley stated. “Terrorists generally don't do that.” His telephone rang. “This is different.” He picked up the receiver. “Yes,” he said. “Good. Send him in.”

Major General Lynwood Sessions was in the uniform of the Navy he served when he entered the office and shook hands with each of us. He was black, maybe forty-five and handsome in a way that was not to be dismissed. He did not take off his jacket or even loosen a button as he formally took a chair and set a fat briefcase beside him.

“General, thank you for coming,” Wesley began.

“I wish it were for a happier reason,” he said as he bent over to get out a file folder and legal pad.

“Don't we all,” Wesley said. “This is Captain Pete Marino with Richmond, and Dr. Kay Scarpetta, the chief medical examiner of Virginia.” He looked at me and held my gaze. “They work with us. Dr. Scarpetta, as a matter of fact, is the medical examiner in the cases that we believe are related to what is happening today.”

General Sessions nodded and made no comment.

Wesley said to Marino and me, “Let me try to tell you
what we know beyond the immediate crisis. We have reason to believe that vessels in the Inactive Ship Yard are being sold to countries that should not have them. This includes Iran, Iraq, Libya, North Korea, Algeria.”

“What sort of vessels?” Marino asked.

“Mainly submarines. We also suspect that this shipyard is buying vessels from places like Russia and then reselling them.”

“And why have we not been told this before?” I asked.

Wesley hesitated. “No one had proof.”

“Ted Eddings was diving in the Inactive Yard when he died,” I said. “He was near a submarine.”

No one replied.

Then the general said, “He was a reporter. It's been suggested that he might have been looking for Civil War relics.”

“And what was Danny doing?” I measured my words because I was getting tired of this. “Exploring a historic train tunnel in Richmond?”

“It's hard to know what Danny Webster was into,” he said. “But I understand the Chesapeake police found a bayonet in the trunk of his car, and it is consistent with the tool marks left on your slashed tires.”

I looked a long time at him. “I don't know where you got your information, but if what you've said is true, then I suspect Detective Roche turned that evidence in.”

“I believe he turned in the bayonet, yes.”

“I believe all of us in this room can be trusted.” I kept my eyes on his. “If there is a nuclear disaster, I am mandated by law to take care of the dead. There are already too many dead at Old Point.” I paused. “General Sessions, now would be a very good time to tell the truth.”

The men were silent for a moment.